


mask on (fuck it, mask off)

by queenofthestarrrs



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: And Jack makes amends, Freeform, Gen, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, M/M, Multimedia, Or Kent explores his feelings, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 13:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11059788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthestarrrs/pseuds/queenofthestarrrs
Summary: Kent Parson in the inbetweens.Or, Kent's life will always be tied to Jack's.





	mask on (fuck it, mask off)




 

Kent was the one who found him, you know. 

 

ESPN never reports on it. It doesn’t make a good story, not really.  

 

After all, how would it go?   
  
_ Breaking News:  _

  
Young man does not show up to regularly scheduled hockey practice. Another young man, let’s say his name just happens to be Mr. Parson, hops into his mom’s old car, the same one he’s been driving since he turned sixteen years old. It’s beat up, a clunker, a lemon. It’s probably not fit to be on the road. But it smells like lavender and stale coffee and has the silhouette of a hockey player in the corner of the back windshield, and it’s  _ his  _ goddamnit _.  _

 

Mr. Parson knows something is wrong, the kind of wrong that sinks quietly and dramatically into the bottom of your gut. After all, the young man has never missed a day of hockey practice in his life. Even as a child, a set of baby teeth knocked out of his seldom smiling mouth by a stray puck, he came dutifully to practice. He sat quietly on the bench, chatting with the coaches and occasionally cheering for his friends. He had a slight lisp. The bigger boys laughed and laughed and laughed 

 

Mr. Parson taps nervously against the wheel of the car. His finger dance along the edge. In his mind, he rehearses the pin code to the young man’s front door. He sings it quietly underneath his breath, the same rhythmic song the young man’s mother when he was a child.  _ Cinq Zéro Huit Quatre. Cinq Zéro Huit Quatre. Cinq Zéro Huit Quatre.Cinq Zéro Huit Quatre. _

 

It’s the only French he knows.

 

The young man’s car is still in the cobblestoned driveway. Mr. Parson’s heart sinks. He knows that this is a bad omen. He knows that this is wrong. He knows,-. He knows,-. He knows,-. How to push down his fear He learned that they day he stepped on the ice with boys three times his weight and nearly twice as tall. 

 

The young man’s house is empty. Mr. Parson calls and he calls and he calls, and there is not a single response. He combs over the house, tracing the routes that have become as familiar as his own home. The young man is not in the kitchen or the basement or the living room or in the dining room or in his bedroom. Reluctantly, Mr Parson enters the master bedroom. 

 

It’s a nice room, he thinks to himself as he aimlessly looks around. It’s painted a stark white but is covered in accents of a pale baby blue. One of the throw pillows are slightly off centered, as if someone had just tossed it there when they were making the bed this morning. There are a fresh bunch of yellow roses and a doggy eared book on the right nightstand. On the other side is a copy  _ USA Hockey  _ magazine and a Nook. Mr. Parson wonders if his life will ever be as idyllic as this. He wonders if he would even want a life like this. Maybe it’s just a side effect of old age. 

 

And then he sees it. The door to the master bathroom is slightly jarred. Light from the French bay windows comes peeking through the opening. Mr. Parson walks to the door. 

 

The young man is laying on the ground. His eyes are closed. He looks tired, much too tired for someone who appears to be practically asleep. There is a little empty orange bottle still grasped in his hand. He is so pale that he nearly blends into the white tiling. In fact, he would if it wasn’t for the horrifically bright yellow Bruins sweatshirt. 

 

“Hey, man, wake up.”    
  
The young man does not wake up. 

 

“Jack, come on. This isn’t funny anymore.”    
  
The young man does not wake up. The young man doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. 

 

Mr. Parson whips out his phone and nervously taps 911 into his phone. An ambulance comes, just as the kind operator with the quiet voice assured him that it would. The young man’s parents come racing home, come racing up the staircase. In the days to come, people will tell him that he did the right thing, that there was nothing left for him to do. 

 

He can only focus on the young man. They put him on a gurney, and they carry him out, all 221 pounds of him down the grand master staircase. He looks so tiny and tired, as if the world is interrupting a deep sleep. He grabs the young man’s sweatshirt on the down and clings to until the fabric leaves his damp grasp.

 

The young man’s father offers him a ride to the hospital or home or whatever he wants to go. Mr. Parson declines. He says that he’ll drive home in a few minutes. He says that he needs grab his keys and his duffle bag. He says that he will be fine to drive home. He says if he isn’t, he’ll call his mom. He says that the father needs to be with the young man right now. 

 

The father agrees. 

 

Once everyone is gone, Mr Parson sits in the bathroom. The floor is damp with sweat, but it doesn’t smell like a locker room. It smells like the inside of a brewery, air thick with the burning scent of alcohol. He pulls out his phone. He ignores the pinging of tweets and ESPN notifications.    
  
Instead he asks Siri, very quietly, “Can you overdose from Xanax and alcohol?”   
  
The robotic voice answers, “Let me check that for you.” 

 

-Pause.   

 

“Yes, according to WebMD, mixing any kind of alcohol with Xanax may cause an overdose or even death.”

 

“Can you overdose from Xanax and alcohol?” He asks again, half expecting the answer to change. 

 

Now, at six o’clock: watch this video of a young man and an elderly woman skating on a public pond. What will happen next will warm your heart. Back to you, Jeff. 

 

 

ii 

 

When he was child, Kent was always a fan of nursery rhymes. His grandmother used to have a thick and dusty old book filled to the brim with them, and she could entertain him for hours. She had always spoken in grand inflections, incredible voices for each other characters. The kings would always sound deep and gravely, commanding as much authority as a 75 year old woman could muster. The queens and princesses would speak in high, flinting voices; the dashing knights smooth and quick talking.    
  
However, there was always one that Kent’s grandmother would read over and over again. It was his favorite. The only one that would send him off to sleep or make him sit in rapture no matter how much his ADHD was acting up that day. 

 

-

 

The only thing Kent knew about rehab was what he had seen on several very long flights where he watched nothing but horror movies and reruns of  _ Criminal Minds.  _ Part of him knew that, of course, not all rehabs could be haunted with the ghosts of junkies past or filled with murderous crazy people. But then again, he never expected for this place to be so  _ nice.  _   
  
First off, the nurse had told him when arrived, this place was not rehab. No one on the “campus” would ever be caught calling this something as base as rehab. It was a rehabilitation center, if it was ever actually referred to at all. Most of the staff just called it Stonybrook. The “residents,” what Kent assumed was the glossy way they referred to the people who came for treatment here,   milled around freely. Some of them ran the path surrounding the building. Others walked around slowly, chatting in groups of three or four. Some sat on painted wicker chairs, meditating in silence or talking at length with one of the staff members. 

 

The receptionist that greets Kent is cheerful and pretty. She’s the kind of pretty that reminds him of his overachieving sister, the kind of pretty would be the president of a sorority or captain of the cheerleading squad. Her artificially blonde hair is immaculately curled around her round face. 

“Can I help you, honey?” She asks, Valley Girl accent strong and warm, as she taps away at her computer. 

 

“Uh, hi.” Kent draws a blank and stares at her for a beat. Her eyes are kind, they’re understanding. She gives him a small reassuring nod. He slides his government issued ID, his license, across the desk. “My name is Kent Parson. I’m here to see Jac-. I’m here to see Jacques Zimmermann. If that’s, uh, okay.”   
  
The girl’s face crinkles in confusion as she types away at her computer. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t think you’re on the approved visitor list. I’m not seeing your name here. You must really want to see your friend if you drove here from New York, but I’m sorry. I can’t let you in. It’s the campus policy, not mine.”  

 

Kent’s palms suddenly sweat. He wants to scratch at them. He wants to walk out of here, walk all the way back to his stupid broken down car, and drive far, far, far away from this place. He wants to wake up on the fateful morning so many months ago, and he wants to walk into the same sight he saw every morning - Jack munching away on a PB & J sandwich and lacing up his skates.  _ Goddamn,  _ He doesn’t want to be here.   

 

“It’s okay, Hayley, he’s with me.” 

 

Alicia Zimmerman is standing the corridor, her arms outstretched. There’s a soft and serene smile on her face, blue eyes shining just as they always had. She cut her hair, Kent notices. It’s shorter now and looks lighter than he remembers. It makes her look older, more matronly. It’s not a bad look. 

 

“As long as you say it’s okay, Mrs. Z.” 

 

Hayley’s lilting voice floats through the air, but Kent is already wrapped tightly in Alicia’s arms. She smells like Chanel Number 5 and vanilla lotion, and apple soap and Kent feels noticeably at ease. 

 

-

 

_ Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.  _ _  
_ _ Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.  _

 

-

 

“Bob and I just wanted to say how proud of you we are. Las Vegas has an excellent team, or at least that’s what Bob tells me. You know I don’t follow hockey too closely anymore except for the rosters that have Zim-..”

 

Kent follows her down a series of hallways. The walls are painted a cheery pale yellow. There are a few hand painted pictures that break up the spaces between the closed doors. They’re mostly paintings of the surrounding countryside. Bright roses huddle in the corners. He can practically hear the snap of Alicia’s jaw as she cuts of her last sentence.

 

Deep breath.

 

Soft voice.

 

“You’re going to have such an amazing time. You earned it. You’ve worked so hard, Kent, and you’re such a naturally talented boy.”   
  
Kent shifts uncomfortable. They both know that the contract that’s currently sitting on his mother’s dining room table should properly belong to Jack. 

 

“Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciate it.” 

 

“Please don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ Kenny. It makes me look behind my shoulder for my mother-in-law. And well, you met Bob’s mother yourself. I don’t think you need that one explained to you.” Alicia smiles softly and knocks on one of the doors. It opens just a crack, and she seems to slip halfway inside the room. “Wait right here, and I’ll see if he’s up to a visit.”    
  
She ducks into the room, and it closes with a firm bang. Kent shifts uneasily from foot to foot. He pushes back a stray strand of blonde hair. There’s soft muttering that he can barely hear from behind the door. It’s French, and he can hardly understand any of it. His mother insisted, in her stubborn practicality, that he take Spanish in school. It was going to be much more useful in the real world, if the bubble of hockey dreams ever burst on him. Besides, he never really needed to speak French, not even in Montreal.  He had always had Jack there to translate for him. 

 

There’s a sharp bang, as if a fist has hit a night table. There’s muffled shouting and a choked sob.  “Mère, absolument pas. Je ne vais pas.” 

 

A few of the nurses have begun to gather around the door. They’re talking quietly to one another, asking if they should get the doctor. They’re asking if sentatives are approved for use. Kent shutters, strand coming undone and bouncing before his face. His palms start to itch again, and he wants to leave. He wants to stay. He never wants to see Jack again. He wants his best friend back. 

 

Bob emerges this time. He looks noticeably more tired than Alicia, as if he'd aged ten years in less than ten months. His eyes are red, either from crying or lack of sleep. He’s still smiling. He embraces Kent in a hug that’s more fierce than anything that Kent has felt in a long time. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, arms still wrapped around Kent. “He’s being fussy today. You know how Jack can be. He’s got more heart than head sometimes, but I love ‘em. I know you do too.”   
  


He releases Kent and pats him gently on the arm. “Lemme cover your gas back to New York. Just send me the bill. It’s no big deal. Oh, and send me an email with your schedule. I really want the whole family to come out and see you. You’re going to do great big things, Kenny. Be safe.” 

 

Kent nods, tears swelling in his eyes. He’s careful to blink them away as he waves goodbye to Bad Bob and steps down the hallway. The nurses seem to have immediately descended on the man as soon as Kent left. There’s angry whispering and exhausted sighs and sure enough, the firm click of the door as it closes. 

 

“Hope you had a great visit, sugar!” Hayley calls as Kent hurries by the front desk. He doesn’t bother to answer. 

 

-

_ All the king’s horses,  _

_ And all the king’s men _

_ Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.  _

 

_ - _

 

iii.

 

Kent is 20 year old and drinking champagne out of the Stanley Cup with a bendy straw when the news comes through. 

 

 

**nicki** ❤ @nickirickki2 42s

 

Ok, so  i know that@kentparson  isn’t 21 but how can you not love this? dude is living my literal dream rn.    
  


 

Of course, his teammates don’t tell him about it. They’re too busy skating around the ice, screaming at the top of their lungs. They’re banging on plexiglass and drinking it in as the crowd screams back at them. Confetti, black and white and red and silver, is raining down on the crowds. 

 

But his sister does. With her clear eyes and no-nonsense personality, she stops him on his way into the locker room. Still on his skates, he towers over her, smiling and sweating. She looks angry and emotional as she taps on her phone. Her blonde hair covers part of her face like a curtain, illuminated a sick pink for the glow of her phone. She passes him the thing, and she grabs onto his arm. She clutches him as his eyes scan an ESPN article. 

 

While Kent Parson was fighting tooth and nail in Game Seven of the Stanley Cup, Jack Zimmermann was sitting down for one of the most coveted interviews of the century. It’s not often that you get to interview a former sports star after he just ups and disappears for years at a time to show up a tiny liberal arts school tucked away in Massachusetts. Although he insists he was never in hiding, it brings in a lot of viewers when the son of an NHL great finally does come out of his self imposed exile.

 

 

**a hockey trashcan** @harryjohnson3 2m

 

come on @ESPN, i can’t believe you’re making me pick between game 7 and the zimmermann interview.

 

 

“Skip to 6:43,” Kent’s sister leans into her brother. She looks more shaken than angry as she carefully studies her brother’s face. “That’s what you need to see.”    
  
The caster’s voice is chipper, practically gleeful in comparison to Jack’s somber drawl. 

 

“So, for a lighter note, one of your best friends is playing for the Cup right now. According to one of our producers, it looks like Kent Parson and the Las Vegas Aces are going to win it all. Do you have any words of advice or congratulations for your former co-captain?” 

 

Jack shrugs, navy suit stretching with his broad shoulders. He looks morose. His eyes dodge the camera. “No, not really. We don’t talk anymore.”    
  


**cute as heck** @tinaturnsss 4m

 

“we dont talk anymore.”   
yeah i wouldn’t talk to anyone who stole my draft spot either tbh fam

 

  
Kent can practically hear it now. The sounds of angry typing as fans type out terrible responses. How could Kent have abandoned him in his time of need? How could he go on to the draft, to win the Cup while his friend struggled? How could he be so heartless? 

 

He wants to show everyone the dozens of trips from New York to Ontario. He wants to show them unanswered texts and phone calls that ended promptly with, “Oh, I’m sorry, Kent. He isn’t home right now.” He wants to show them how long he’s missed someone he’s loved so much. He wants them to hear every sentence that he ever mentioned that began, “Yeah, back when I was with Jack-.” He wants to scream. He wants to curse. He wants to cry. 

 

“There’s the man of the hour! We need you in the press box. They’re dying to hear from you.” His coach screams as he comes barreling through the tunnel. Both Parsons give him a bit of a glare, light eyes swimming with tears. “Did I interrupt anything?” 

 

“Just happy tears,” Kent’s sister offers an uninspiring response. 

 

 

**Kerry Summers** @KerrySummers 34s

 

Might just be me, but does Kent Parson look like he’s been weeping. Never saw a dude blink or sniffle so much in one press interview.

 

 

iv.

 

It’s years later from that Cup win. 

 

It’s long after the events of Epikegster 2K14. 

 

It’s even been a year since the Falconers and the Aces faced each other in the playoffs, a particularly nasty game that ended with blood on the ice and a broken jaw. 

 

Now, it’s just Jack and Kent.

 

They’re sitting in Jack’s favorite bakery, Mamie Clafoutis, right in the heart of Montreal. They used to here all the time, back when they were juniors. They’d come breezing in, with loose jerseys fresh from the laundry and brightly colored shorts, during their off seasons and put away as many croissants and coffee as the twenty dollars Kent’s mother gave them could get. 

 

They’re different now. With the exception of their customary playoff scruff, you would never be able to tell that they were hockey players. Kent, with the same black suit, impeccably tailored, that he always travels in, looks like a businessman, like some yuppie on break from his business trip. Jack is wearing his old Samwell quarter zip and has a Georgia Bulldogs hat pulled low over his eyes. Neither one of them is smiling, but there’s a gentleness to the air.

 

Kent takes a bite of his croissant. It tastes just as sweet and airy as he remembers. He smiles self indulgently as he watches the crumbs fall to the floor. Jack watches him intensely, eyes still bright even in the shadow of his brim. 

 

“Listen,” Jack’s voice is soft and even. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

 

“Me too,” Kent puts his hand on Jack’s arm, and he takes another bite of croissant. It wasn’t going to fix everything, but it was a start. “Now, bro, you have to tell me everything about this Bittle dude.”

**Author's Note:**

> dark!ngozi give me the forbidden jack/kent friendship


End file.
